The Approach
by izzygone
Summary: Sherlock had John pinned chest-first against the wall in an alley behind the local pub, hands clasped behind his back. God, how had they gotten here? A prequel to The Spiral. Warnings for: m/m, sexual content


A/N: Welcome to The Approach! This will be a chapter fic (just so I don't have to name each piece), but will be comprised of oneshots. I wanted to challenge myself (and I noticed everything I write is getting progressively longer), so I have capped each chapter at 2500 words. This is only the first chapter and already I'm having trouble with it.

It will be helpful to read my series, The Spiral, before reading this since this is _technically_ a prequel to it. These chapters probably won't be in chronological order and will be posted sparingly, as I flush each piece out.

If you decide _not_ to read The Spiral, that's totally cool, too. Just note that this fic will be dark. There will probably be some dub con/non con, gun play and general abuse in later chapters. I will tag appropriately as I add to this.

A few notes on the writing:  
Unlike The Spiral, which was written in present tense and essentially from John's perspective, this series will be written in past tense (since it's a prequel) and mainly from Sherlock's perspective (to give the detective a chance to defend himself, so to speak).

Also, not beta'd as usual.

* * *

Sherlock had John pinned chest-first against the wall in an alley behind the local pub, hands clasped behind his back.

God, how had they gotten here?

For John, it all happened so quickly.

One moment he was sitting at the bar next to his rugby mates from uni – the next he was pinned between a cold brick wall and six feet of solid, aroused and angry detective.

For Sherlock, it happened more slowly, deliberately.

John had lied to him. Said he was going to the _bleeding Tesco_ but really intended to meet his _dull friends_ for a _dull pint_ in a _dull pub_. John had _lied to his face. _ And, well, Sherlock couldn't have that, could he?

He didn't follow John, _per se_. Why would he when Mycroft's surveillance crew was right across the street and so easily bribed? Not that they wouldn't tattle on him later – such is the nature of spies – but it bought him some time. Particularly, time to track down a certain doctor via CCTV on his way to the local.

Then it was a simple matter of showing up, sending a few choice texts (_"do exactly as I say or I will bend you over this table and fuck you, right here, right now, regardless of who is watching. – SH" "And don't pretend you'd say no. –SH")_ and ushering the blushing, embarrassed – yet clearly aroused – doctor out the back door and into the alley behind.

Sherlock had John pinned to the wall before the doctor had time to open his mouth to protest or say something incredibly dull and obviously wrong. Something like: "you can't just interrupt my night out like this" because clearly Sherlock _could _and, more importantly, _would_.

Sherlock pressed John's face hard against the wall so he turned his head to avoid breaking his nose, and the detective took a moment to actually _nuzzle_ against the doctor's neck, in part to cause John to scrape his cheek against the no doubt uncomfortable and rough brick and in part to feel the sensation of John shivering with fear and excitement. Indeed, John trembled as if on cue and Sherlock swallowed hard to bury the arousal that flushed through him at that response.

Sherlock often marveled that he had managed to find a companion who suited his needs so well. John was wonderfully responsive, unquestionably loyal and, most importantly, gloriously compliant. Sherlock pushed and pulled and tested the doctor's limits, and John was yet to break. Well, he _did_ occasionally break but in a way that complimented Sherlock's peerless skills. And Sherlock always managed to put him together again.

And then, just when Sherlock thought he had John categorized, tagged and mounted, ready to display on his wall, the doctor would go and do something like _this_; sneak out of the house without permission. Let no one ever accuse John Watson of being ordinary.

John must be a glutton for punishment – which was fine by Sherlock because he delighted in dealing it out. That must be why their relationship worked so well. Or perhaps it was because John didn't have much of a choice.

"You really shouldn't test me, John," Sherlock whispered harshly in his ear, "You aren't remotely clever enough to come out on top."

John grunted and forced himself to nod, scraping his cheek roughly against the brick. Sherlock smiled, imaging those scratches on the doctor's face for days. He'd have to think of some excuse to bring John by the Yard tomorrow, just to show it off.

"Bend over," He growled as he tugged at the soldiers hips, digging fingers in and seeking to leave bruises. How nice it would be if any of these markings were permanent. But he already decided to save scarification play for a day when he was _truly _bored.

And right now, John was being so delightfully interesting.

John's body was always compliant under Sherlock's rough touch, but he cried out in a quickly suppressed protest – Sherlock loved how quickly John remembered his place – as Sherlock efficiently worked off John's trousers and, immediately following, his red cotton briefs, exposing his arse to the chilly night air. They both sucked in air quickly – John against the sudden chill and Sherlock against the sudden thrill of John, naked and exposed, just shy of willing, and so_ tempting_. Sherlock ran his hand soothingly across John's bum, gripping here and there, feeling the texture of it, thinking about bruises and trying to compose himself as images of past plunderings ran through his mind. _God_, the things he had done to this arse. And there was still so much to come.

His fingers itched to find their way inside John's hot, tight hole, and who was he to deny his body anything? He rubbed teasingly against the top of John's cleft, just at the edge of his spine, eliciting a drawn out moan that turning into a hiss from the man he was fondling. John could be so delightfully responsive.

Trying to pace himself, Sherlock rubbed his fingers through John's cleft, rutting them against him gently as he might do with his cock in a delicious form of frottage. Finally, impatience rising inside him, he lowered his fingers to where he would find John's aching hole… except he was greeted by something else. Something plastic, hard and flat. What in the… he flexed his fingers around it. _Oh god_, he gulped, dizzy with sudden hot realization and the flooding of blood downward straight to his hardening cock – it was the anal plug he'd given John as punishment for denying him pleasure as he surveyed his battlefield from the London Eye.

Let no one ever accuse John Watson of being boring.

_Oh fuck_, Sherlock nearly shook from the heady excitement of it, "Oh John, you naughty, naughty boy." He deduced that John was smirking with pride against the wall but couldn't stop himself from moaning because, _fuck_, John had prepared himself, made himself ready for Sherlock's punishment. Fuck, _oh god,_ it was so dirty and twisted and sexy and fucking perfect. Sherlock had to stop and breathe because he could imagine vividly the steps John went through to prepare this… could see him fingering himself, lubricating the plug, teasing himself with it, rubbing it just right against his prostate. Sherlock steadied his breathing so he could speak, needing to calm himself or he might come in his pants just from the thought, "You knew this would happen," he stated, his voice much more detached than he really was. He toyed with the plug, tugging at it and letting it suction back in, pulling low and feral moans from the doctor bent below him, "You knew I'd track you," Sherlock continued, pressing one finger in next to the plug, just to test how well stretched John was – oh, so hot and slick, fucking gorgeous – "Knew I'd find you, you knew I'd take you out here," he swallowed, fuck, _oh god_, his cock was so hard, twitching with the desire to replace the plug in John's arse; _fuck_, he loved deduction, and to do it with John bent before him like this… he could barely contain himself, "You wanted to be punished," he finished, licking his lips, "Am I right?" he asked, pulling at the plug so its widest part stretched John's hole and the tip of it pressed just against John's prostate. John couldn't speak – was too smart and experienced by now to even try anyway – and instead nodded, grunting with an inflection, asking without words: "good, yes?" Sherlock swallowed thickly to wet his throat as he shoved the plug back inside his companion, freeing his hands to release his own straining cock, "Oh, yes, John, very good."

Sherlock hissed as he pulled his cock from the folds of his trousers, the sensation of his cool hand almost too much to bear against his inflamed skin. John reached up and braced himself better against the wall, prepared for what was to come. And _fuck_ if that wasn't a sight to see; John Watson, arse bare and presented, steadying himself against the brick wall though his thighs trembled as much with need as a reaction to the steadily cooling air. Sherlock could wait no longer; he reached back to the plug in John's stretched hole, twisting it as he removed it in a single motion. On another night, he might like to study John's hole as it retracted from the stretch, he might tease it, test its reactions to stimuli, maybe let it relax again before coaxing it back open again, but not tonight. As quickly as he removed the plug, he inserted himself, leaving John with hardly a moment to register that he was briefly empty. _God_, the feeling of John around his cock… so deliciously wet and slick from John's earlier preparation and now Sherlock's precome. Sherlock stilled, letting his head fall back as he relished the sensation. John grunted below him, arching back with the desire to be fucked. Sherlock ignored the demand as he pocketed the plug – that was a toy that necessitated revisiting. Or perhaps it should be framed, put on a shelf in a museum and labeled "The time John Watson surprised Sherlock Holmes. Again."

Sherlock let out an involuntary hiss as John squeezed suddenly around him_. Fuck, oh yes_, Sherlock could take a hint. He inched himself back out of John and then slowly back in, watching his cock disappear inside John's body. John was hot and slippery and felt just perfect around Sherlock's cock, which felt heavy with the desire to orgasm. Below him, John was letting out a low keening and Sherlock moved slightly, letting the folds of his coat form a curtain around John's body, as much to hide their indecency – not that anyone could doubt what they were doing, not with John bent and begging as he was – as to protect himself from the chill of the night. With the motion, he swatted gently at John's arse through the new fabric barrier, "Hush," he punctuated the sound with a thrust of his hips, "Wouldn't want anyone to hear, now would we?" Another harsh thrust accented John's muted grunt of a reply.

Sherlock smirked, savoring the delectable feeling of John's wet passage against his flush, oversensitive cock. He wanted to build it, he wanted to feel each sensation as he worked himself toward orgasm, but an unexpected clang from around the corner – another alley or two away, judging by the reverberation – caused John to suddenly clamp down, and it was Sherlock's turn to swallow a moan to avoid their detection. Wouldn't do to have the Yard's finest rushing down here and catching the consulting detective with his knickers down, so to speak. It was difficult enough to deal with their sass since the deerstalker photo incident. Though Sherlock couldn't deny that Lestrade walking in on them, discovering him ball deep in John's eager mouth or arse was a bit of a fantasy of his.

Hmm, perhaps another time.

But _god_, the feeling of John clamping down around him, tightening his wet grip nearly tugged him over the edge and shredded his control entirely. Without further prompting, he began a brutal assault against John, ramming him against the wall, dragging his cock out with mild restraint before thrusting forward, filling the doctor again and again. John was vibrating below him, his cock completely untouched – though it was hardly detective work to deduce that he was still fully hard – and yet nearing the brink of orgasm.

Sherlock _could _reach around, press his fingers around the base of the doctor's cock and prevent the orgasm, but generally he disliked touching John intimately – he liked to save it for special occasions and so that John would not confuse this for any sort of _normal_ relationship; this was not an _exchange_ of pleasures, this was Sherlock _taking_ what was rightfully his and that John happened to take pleasure in Sherlock's release was a trivial matter – and it didn't much matter to Sherlock if or when John came. Just as long as he did so _quietly_.

Which, for the moment, the doctor seemed quite incapable of doing. His breath was ragged, loud and echoing in the narrow corridor, his muted moans were becoming less and less so and Sherlock could hear pacing somewhere near by – it was difficult to calculate the exact distance without slowing his own pace, which was something he was entirely unwilling to do. So long as John would stop crying out like a wounded man, Sherlock could complete this task without further risk of discovery.

"Quiet," Sherlock spoke, the word harsh and louder than it had any right to be. He could not compose himself – he canted forward and back with violent intentions, the sight of his engorged prick being swallowed by John's gaping arse a too perfect picture to ignore. He'd have to silence John without words or risk being the cause of their exposure.

Of course, Sherlock was at all times brilliant. He leaned forward over the moaning doctor who was biting at his lips, trying to swallow cries that could easily be mistaken for pain. Sherlock couldn't whisper, couldn't speak as his rhythm was upset by the motion, instead he let go of John's hips and moved his right hand to cover Johns mouth, effectively silencing him. John made a grateful nodding motion, straining against Sherlock's skin.

The detective leaned back as far as he could while maintaining contact over John's mouth, rocking his hips forward against John, not pulling even nearly out. He could feel John quaking, coming undone under him. It felt like fucking perfection. And then John's body began to violently shake, a throaty grunt was the only noise to signal his violent release. Sherlock sighed and moved his hand from John's mouth, free again to pump in and out of John as he chose. The doctor was beautifully slack below him, the perfect canvas for Sherlock to fill with come. Oh just the idea of it… the sinful thought of flooding Johns arse with his come – again – was encouraging and exciting. Sherlocks movements became more erratic, he could feel it. This was John's purpose, this was the exact fucking reason Sherlock kept him around – to use as the perfect receptacle. And fuck if the doctor didn't love every minute of it, as evident by his sudden bucking backward. The motion was too much for Sherlock, his rhythm upset and causing his release to bubble up over him unbidden. He bit down a curse as he rode the waves of it, canting into John until he was spent.

Finally, he stopped, his spent cock slipping from John and making him shudder. _Fuck_, the cold. He placed his hand against John's back, _don't move_, he indicated, taking the time to adjust himself back inside his trousers. When he was sorted, he reached back into his pocket to retrieve the plug. It slid back into John's arse without effort.


End file.
